


death and other adventures

by wombatpop



Series: death and other adventures [1]
Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: (sometimes), Angry!Stiglitz, Angst, Arguments, Completed, Drama, Established Relationship, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Nazi, POV First Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective!Donny, Romance, Sad!Utivich, WWII, mostly angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-21 13:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 6,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9551480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wombatpop/pseuds/wombatpop
Summary: The Basterds march - fuelled each by their own motivations - not with fear or enthusiasm but with a content acceptance and eagerness to succeed. Until their fates arrive all that is left is to live, one victory and loss at a time, savouring every taste and touch until it is inevitably taken from them, and they can join those sleeping so soundly, and they can finally rest.





	1. an old friend

**Author's Note:**

> recently re-edited (Oct 2017)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donny had known that the Basterds were collecting a new recruit that night, but he hadn't been told specifics. Someone higher up thought that the information in her possession could be beneficial for some of the Basterds’ missions. Donny's utter surprise when Carter informed him that she was in fact, the new recruit, was surpassed by his irritation that she would consent to join. But there was never any question for Jean. The Basterd's mission was to kill Nazis - as many as possible. Why would she turn down the opportunity to be on the right side of history, and save some lives in the process?  
> A woman shouldn't have to miss out on all the fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to the lovely [assemblemywords](http://assemblemywords.tumblr.com/) for being my beta! feel free to check out [my tumblr](http://wombat-pop.tumblr.com) , I sometimes post updates and extra bits on there

There's a 50/50 chance of these boys not knowing the meaning of the word 'punctual'. Although she had heard that Lieutenant Raine was one of the best team leaders this side of the Atlantic, you never know. It could be a long wait.  
Absentminded anxiety kept her fidgeting, flakes of paint falling to the floor from where she was picking at the surface of the chair, wooden splinters digging into her fingertips. Floorboards occasionally creaked beneath her, but otherwise there was silence. No one comes out here, it's too far from town, and completely inaccessible if you don't know your way. 

A rustle outside and she creeps to the window, eyes searching for movement. Is it them or someone else?  
A thud downstairs and the door creaks open. Whoever they are, they're in the house.   
A groan on the staircase and she slips quietly into the shadows, fingers clutching her pistol, a little tighter with each sound. Hushed voices drift gently up, seeping through the walls. The footsteps come progressively closer, until a figure appears in the doorway. A mustached man with deep lines on his face surveys the room. He murmurs over his left shoulder, to someone still hidden in the darkness of the staircase.   
"She should be here, somewhere..."  
Reassured by his thick American accent, she takes a step forward, her face only half emerging from shadow.  
The man's head snaps to her position. He narrows his eyes slightly, the hand at his hip hovering - undoubtedly over where a weapon sits, ready to take a life at the first sign of a threat.  
"Lieutenant Raine?"

-

I know that voice. At least I think I do. But it can't be her, can it?  
He moves to approach her, and Jean starts, stepping forward as if she intended to reach out and touch him.   
"Don?"  
It was her. Older, a little more French, but still her.   
"Jean? What the fuck are you doing here?"  
Before she could answer, the Lieutenant jumped in. "You two know each other?"  
Jean looked to Donny and he took that as his cue to explain.   
"This is Jean. Carter. She's..."  
He paused, searching for the right words. She used to be like a sister, but he doesn’t know what she would be these days. It'd been years since their last meeting, and this was such a weird reunion that his head felt foggy.   
"An old friend", Donny finished.  
There was a moment of awkward silence as Jean looked at him, waiting.   
Some of the other Basterds approached the staircase, with Wicki and Sakowitz coming up to flank Raine on either side.   
Raine broke the quiet, inspecting Jean briefly before turning back to his Staff Sergeant.   
"We'll be setting up camp here for tonight. You can brief Miss Carter here." He turned and ushered the others down the stairs, some grumbling. The room felt suddenly empty. Jean crossed her arms, and Donny sighed. This was going to be a long night.


	2. fair game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She was my neighbour. We were close."

"Happy to have your broad on the team, Sarge?" Ulmer asked, smirking as he passed, quickly dancing out of arms reach.   
"She ain't my broad, Ulmer, and you better watch it."  
"So she's fair game then?" Hirschberg chimed in, sitting himself on a tree root, a devilish smile on his face. Walking over, Donny loomed over him. An average sized kid, Donny’s younger self would barely recognise his own body, now.

"You lay one finger on her and I'll break your goddamn neck." Hirschberg’s smile faltered slightly, and he glanced away, unable to maintain eye contact.  
"And that goes to all of you!" Donny added, gesturing widely with his bat around the camp. A few of the guys smirked, but they hid their smiles quickly. They're well aware by now of what their Staff Sergeant is capable of; he doesn’t let them forget it.   
"Just asking, Sarge", Hirschberg raised his hands to his chest, palms facing outward, but with an irritatingly smug look on his face.   
Donny left to practice his swing, away from the others. Another minute with Hirschberg's grin and he’ll smack it off his pretty little face.

 

An occasional rustle of leaves followed as Donny left camp. He paused, and the rustling lingered behind him, slowly and confidently approaching.  
Donny’s follower leans against the nearest tree, crossing his arms and looking at Donny with a seemingly calm expression. But Donny could tell he was worried about something – lips a bit too pressed together, forehead a bit too tight for him to be genuinely relaxed. Donny could always tell.   
"You alright?"  
"Yeah." Donny replied, exhaling. He sat down on a high tree stump, the ripped wood scratching weakly against his trousers, turning his bat over in his hands. He ran his thumb slowly over the names, a habit he’d gotten into since coming over here. Helps him focus.   
A moment passed and his breathing began to slow. Uti was still looking at him. Donny wondered why he was still here.   
"So, who's Carter?"   
Donny frowned. He didn't really want to talk about Jean right now.   
"Old friend."  
"What sort of friend?" Uti asked, quieter than before. He seemed suddenly shy.   
Donny looked up at him, confused. What's with the sudden interest in Jean?  
"She was my neighbour. We were close."  
Uti's face seemed to fall slightly, his gaze falling to the ground. Oh God, had he said something wrong?  
"How close?"  
It took Donny another few seconds before he realised what Utivich was driving at.   
"Uh... I mean..."  
Uti raised his head, his eyes wide. (His fucking blue eyes.)  
"We were, uh, just friends." Donny stated quickly, adding a deliberate shrug for emphasis. Uti’s expression didn't change. He didn't believe him.   
"We were friends when we were kids, she moved away." Donny continued, still rushing to explain. His heart rate was rising; he could feel himself getting angry.   
Utivich broke into a weak smile.   
"What did you think I was gonna say?" His indignant tone did nothing but turn Uti's smile into a grin.   
Donny stood and approached him, bat slung across his shoulders. Utivich looked up at him and Donny’s heart galloped again, but maybe this time less from anger.   
"I just like to know about any competition I might have."   
Donny’s chuckle, intended to seem dismissive, sounded more nervous than anything. Any confidence in Donny’s body language was discredited by his tentativeness in placing a grubby hand on Utivich’s slender neck.   
Although he couldn't bring himself to say it they both understood the implication.   
Utivich's grin turned into a smirk, leaning forward to close the distance between them, soft and sweet and all his, his Utivich, his Little Man.


	3. introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not the air-head he expected, huh?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /Indicates dialogue in German/  
> ~Indicates dialogue in French~  
> All other dialogue is in English.

Setting her pack down in the small clearing, her first proper camp with the Basterds, Jean sat and took out a cigarette from her pocket.  
One of the Basterds appeared beside her, not a sound to indicate his approach.   
"~Lighter?~"  
He stretched out a dirtied, red cigarette lighter, his voice low.  
Accepting his offer, she placed her fingers gingerly over his, the dirt caught in the folds of his fingers contrasting with Jean’s recently cleaned hands, guiding the lighter to the end of her cigarette.  
"~Thanks~." She shot him a small smile and leant back.   
Sitting down, the man introduced himself.   
"Wilhelm Wicki."  
"~Nice to meet you, Wicki. Jean Carter. Although I'm sure you already knew that.~"  
He chuckled deeply, taking a draw from his own cigarette; the smoke winding up until it disappeared into the sparse limbs of the trees.   
"~You speak French beautifully for an American~", she proposed, eliciting another low chuckle.  
"~So do you.~" She laughed shortly, pausing for an explanation.   
"~I was born in Austria~"  
"/Ah. You speak German also?/"  
He looked surprised. Not the air-head he expected, huh?  
"/Yes, although by the sounds of it you speak it almost as well as I do./", he responded, smiling.   
"Almost."


	4. Sergeant Hugo Stiglitz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hugo wondered how a woman had come to join such a group.

A shiver ran through him, muscles embracing bones just a little too tightly - uncontrollable, but he still cursed himself for seeming so weak. He could feel the cold starting to seep under his skin, like ice water running around his veins. Tapping his cigarette gently, he took another quick draw from it, trying to make it last. He isn’t one to waste.  
A sudden flurry of gunfire brought him out from his cold-induced stupor - not that gunfire frightens him these days.  
Like spiders, men began to emerge from the several tunnel-like portions of the cell room. They seemed at ease, if not quite relaxed.  
Two figures enter from the rear of the group - A tall man, who is clearly the leader of the group, and another figure. Hugo wondered how a woman had come to join such a group.  
Although judging by her demeanor, it’s unlikely she'd appreciate that sentiment. 

"Sergeant Hugo Stiglitz?" The leader drew his attention away from the mystery woman, balancing his gun on his leg in a pose that can only be described as dramatic. Hugo nodded.   
"My name is Lieutenant Aldo Raine, and these are the Basterds, ever heard'a us?" He nodded again.   
"We just wanted to say we're a big fan of your work, when it comes to killin' Nazis-" A groan on the right caused the Lieutenant to pause. Without a moment of hesitation, the woman glanced over, shooting the groaning officer, and looking back to the prisoner.   
(He may have an idea as to how she joined such a group.)  
"... I think you show great talent," Lieutenant Raine continued. "And I pride myself on having an eye for that kin' o' talent".   
Aldo walked over to the cell bars, leaning on them. "But your status as a Nazi killer is still amateur. We came here to see if you wanna go pro." Raine concluded, giving Hugo a sly smile.   
He nodded a third time, this time more vigorously. Join the Basterds, kill more Nazis? Sounds like a great idea.


	5. gentlemanly conduct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The wide eyed one, Utivich, and the Bear Jew - people keep calling him Donny, but I think I'll stick with Sergeant- are clearly good friends. Hirschberg and Donowitz have some kind of old conflict, although it never escalates to full-blown violence. The Lieutenant seems to run their outfit very tightly. Our outfit, I suppose. I'm meant to be one of them now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /Indicates dialogue in German/  
> ~Indicates dialogue in French~  
> All other dialogue is in English.

Walking over to Corporal Wicki, Hugo sat with a thud adjacent to the patch of ground he was resting on. Wicki acknowledged him with a sharp nod.  
They sat in silence for a few minutes, the other Basterds organising themselves around them.  
"/What's the story with...?/" Hugo asks, gesturing discreetly to Carter, on the other side of camp.   
"/She wasn't recruited in the States if that's what you're thinking./" Wicki replied.  
"/Worked for the French. Picked her up in a village a while back. Someone thought she would be useful./"  
"/Is she?/"  
Wicki shrugged. "/It has its ups and downs. She can definitely hold her own. But, it can be a little… distracting./  
He paused.   
"/At least, it was in the beginning./"  
Hugo nodded.  
"/Everyone focused more after Sergeant Donowitz told everyone to leave her alone./"  
"Donowitz?" Hugo repeated. His efforts to convey passive curiosity allowed him to successfully ignore the quiet feeling of deflation in the back of his mind at Wicki’s comment.  
"/Yeah, they're old friends./" Wicki added.   
"Did I hear my name in that fucking kraut language of yours, Wicki?"  
"Mind your own damn business, Donny", Carter retorted, not looking at him, her accent an odd mix of French and American.  
"Fuck off, Jean."  
Hugo raised his eyebrows - not quite gentlemanly conduct, but bashing people's heads in with a baseball bat probably wouldn't be considered gentlemanly conduct either.


	6. wartime fantasies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Less than a minute passed uneventfully, before Hirschberg decided to open his big mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /Indicates dialogue in German/  
> ~Indicates dialogue in French~  
> All other dialogue is in English.

It seemed like days before they reached their next destination. It'd been more like 6 hours, but trudging through landscape that all looks the same for that long makes time feel slow.  
So far, Stiglitz had proven to be a valuable asset - his skills with guns, knives, and the German language were really helping the Basterds along. Most of the other Basterds found him intimidating - some were even frightened of him. Donny had developed this strange hero worship admiration for Stiglitz - which seemed to annoy Utivich no end. But at least he was quiet about it. 

 

The Lieutenant decides that it's about time the Basterds had a clean up.  
Donny was put in charge - he practically volunteered - partly because no one else would do it, and partly because his father owned a barbershop, back in Boston. Donny’s always up for a chance to show off.

The younger Basterds went first. Hugo hung back, waiting for the initial eagerness to die down. As much as Donowitz' enthusiasm irritated him, Hugo was glad for those barber's tools.   
It was a nice distraction, considering Ulmer almost got his throat slashed open a couple of days ago. Should've been paying attention.   
After about four haircuts and shaves, Donowitz is clearly riled by the Basterds' snide comments. Carter offers to take over, and Donowitz strolls away from camp, rubbing the back of his neck. Rolling her sleeves up, Carter beckons Hirschberg, the next in line. Less than a minute passed uneventfully, before Hirschberg decided to open his big mouth.   
"You seem like you're pretty good with your hands, Carter", he began, clearly proud of whatever he'd thought up.   
"All the better to strangle you with, Hirschberg", she replied, not taking her eyes off the razor. Some of the other boys chuckled. Hirschberg continued, undiscouraged. "I was sort of thinking of something else they could do..." Before he could continue his proposal, Carter interrupted, venom in every word. "Hirschberg, who here is the one scraping a blade against the other's unprotected neck?" She paused, but Hirschberg didn't reply. He seemed discouraged now. "If you're planning on being an idiot why don't you do it when I'm less inclined to cut your throat?"  
She wasn't recruited to serve his little wartime fantasies, whatever they may be. 

Two more haircuts and it was Stiglitz' turn.   
He really seemed to have become a lot more comfortable with the Basterds since he first joined. A little more conversational - as in, he says more than one word in a week.   
"/Where did you learn to cut hair?/"  
Jean was almost startled by his question, taking a few seconds to gather a reply.  
"/It's a long story./"  
Stiglitz didn't reply - he had either accepted that as a refusal to talk, or was expecting her to begin.  
She felt obligated to speak.  
"/I was a child with Sergeant Donowitz. We grew together. You know?/"  
Her hands paused. Hugo guessed she was trying to say they grew up together. He nodded, and her hands returned.  
"/We learned together./" She stated, after a moment of hesitation.  
He did not press the issue further.


	7. them and their guns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s just a flesh wound, Sergeant.”
> 
> NOTE: Stiglitz is triggered in this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /Indicates dialogue in German/  
> ~Indicates dialogue in French~  
> All other dialogue is in English.

“Who let that sniper in? Who didn’t fucking check… the …”  
Stiglitz’ sentence trails off as he decides that applying pressure to his wound is probably more important to him than cursing out whoever let his injury happen.   
“It’s just a flesh wound, Sergeant.”  
Stiglitz throws a glare so vicious towards Utivich that he not only becomes silent, but he makes an effort to put at least 20 feet of distance between them.  
Sakowitz approaches with the medical bag, and the Lieutenant calls the others away, leaving Carter to see to Stiglitz’ wounds.

He couldn’t shake the feeling of panic that descended as soon as he felt the bullet enter his body. But it’s fine. He’s not really in danger, as much as his pounding heart would like him think otherwise. He needs to stay calm.

Dropping the bag, Jean turned to Stiglitz, who was standing awkwardly, eyes shifting. His hands tightened on his hip, blood pushing between his fingers, dripping and smudging, sitting messily in the lines of his hands.  
"/I'm not gonna hurt you./" She said, keeping her tone light, undoing the straps on the bag. Stiglitz chuckled bitterly, sarcastically, barely making a sound.  
Having retrieved the appropriate materials from the medical bag, Jean approached Hugo, peeling back his fingers to inspect the wound. Utivich was right; it was just a flesh wound - rather minor, although uncomfortable. She takes a deep breath, the hair on the back of Hugo’s hands standing up in response.  
"/Let me know if this gets too painful./"  
He could barely even feel her fingers upon his skin, the deep throbbing in his side ever present but not enough to stop him from remembering. Another strike and his muscles begin to quiver. His left hand reaches for something to hold onto, but in his dissociation the hand only moves a few centimeters, and finds nothing. Carter says something to him, but he is too far to make sense of her graceless dialect. His surroundings cease to be real, the ground at once swirling and stagnant. He can feel it, as real and as painful as if he were really there. Is he really there? The ground seems just as much cement as soil; his wound just as much from a bullet as the hands of a Gestapo officer. The pressure on his chest is too ambiguous to be identified as from anxiety or an object.  
She could feel him trembling, only just enough for her to feel it. His breath came in short bursts, and she wished she could work faster, clean up this mess of skin and blood and muscle more quickly.  
He barely registers when she is finished. Staggering away, he slumps onto the ground – a foot or a mile away from the others, he couldn’t say. His heart gallops away from him, his breath so erratic he questions if he is breathing at all. His muscles burn, and he shuts his eyes tight, scrunching up his face until he feels his face ache for release. His head between his legs, he waits. For an ending. For salvation. For death.


	8. befitting of a nazi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His cries were easy to ignore.

Jean never thought she would get so much pleasure out of scalping Nazis. Such degradation. That and the boots. Really adds to their reputation. And judging by how much Aldo goes on about their nicknames, reputation is everything. Jean can understand the obsession, even she finds Donny scary sometimes, and she doesn't even know him as the Bear Jew. 

On the Lieutenant’s signal, they emerge.  
Four are dead, but one survives with a flesh wound. As Jean is closest, she walks towards him, gun in hand. He begs, shouts, crawling backwards as she approaches. A few of the other Basterds chuckle. The shouting turns desperate, nothing more than pleading sobs, practically incoherent. The chuckles increase. They knew what was coming.  
Smiling at him, it was one swift motion before her bullet was deep in his abdomen. He screamed, and began cursing her in German, but his protests couldn't stop her now. His cries were easy to ignore.  
She was even able to look him in the eye, lips twitching into some sort of perverse smile, before she shot him in the chest as he screamed. Undignified.  
A death befitting of a Nazi.  
It was a bit sadistic, sure, but she'd been saving her adrenaline ever since Utivich got shot in the shoulder a little while ago - nothing too serious, really, but enough to get everyone a little more angry, renew the sense of urgency in their joint mission to kill-all-the-Nazis. The soldier was still groaning, uniform slowly turning burgundy, arms wrapped around himself in a weak attempt to keep himself together.  
The Lieutenant barks orders.  
Jean attempts to wipe some splattered blood off her leg. Passing, Wicki pats her on the shoulder. 

_Glad I'm getting some kind of appreciation. These are my best pair of pants._


	9. arrogant basterd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mash his skin into the dirt until you can't tell where the forest ends and the soldier begins.

"They've been a while, do you think I should check on them?" Donny asked, looking over to Wicki. Stiglitz and Carter’s Lieutenant-ordered knife skills session was running mysteriously overtime. Donny’s hands clasped and unclasped on his lap; an unusually nervous gesture. It was odd - Stiglitz doesn't usually seek out human interaction at all, and Jean's knife skills weren't below average. Why would they be taking so long?   
Wicki shook his head. "Stop worrying, Sergeant, they’re not children."   
Donny sighed. He knows they aren’t children, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t sort of responsible for her.  
Just as Donny was about to go and check on them, Jean reappears.   
Donny knew that smirk well, as much as she was obviously trying to hide it. Or at least he thought he did. Why she would be smirking like that here, he doesn’t know. It's probably not that smirk, maybe it just your everyday, 'that was funny' sort of smirk that he's confusing with her 'I just got very close to someone’ kind of smirk. 

Wait.   
Stiglitz. 

Stiglitz was just about the only person in the team that Donny hadn't had a fight with yet. He admired Stiglitz' skill as a Nazi-killing machine, and he mostly kept to himself, and Donny respects that. But messing around with one of the people he's closest to, who he's meant to take care of?  
He knows exactly what he's going to do. 

Stiglitz is still looking at her, distracted as Donny approaches him. Arrogant bastard. Out of the corner of his eye, Donny sees Sakowitz and Wicki stand, but it's too late, he's reached Stiglitz and his back is against the closest tree and everything looks red, more red than it did before. Words tumble out of his mouth and he hisses threats at him, but the communication between his brain and his mouth is interrupted by his almost overwhelming desire to smash Stiglitz into the ground. Mash his skin into the dirt until you can't tell where the forest ends and the soldier begins.   
Abruptly, Donny is torn away from his target, a sharp impact against his jaw making him dizzy. Someone behind him chuckles. Jean stands in front of him, fuming, and her left hand red and clenched by her side.  
Stiglitz retreats to the other side of camp, uniform still slightly askew. His hands are perfectly steady as he lights his cigarette.   
Donny shuffles closer to Jean, realising that causing such a scene probably wouldn't bode well with the Lieutenant. The red haze is more of a rose tint, now.  
"I know that fuckin' smirk, Jean."  
She glares at him.   
"You are an idiot, Don."  
She turns and huffs out of camp and he follows, hearing the Lieutenant sigh behind them. 

 

"If he's touched you, I swear, I'll break his fucking neck!"  
"If you touch him, I'll break your fucking neck!" She retorts, turning suddenly, fists clenched so hard she's sure her palms must be bleeding.   
"He's not someone you wanna mess around with!"  
"Who I mess around with is none of your business!"  
"Jean-"  
"No, Donny, listen. I'm not gonna put up with this shit. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm doing perfectly fine without your input. Haven't I done my job well here? Haven't I taken care of myself for years while you were still in Boston?"  
She paused for reply, but he didn't say anything. He knew she was right.   
"Why do you treat me like a goddamn kid?" She spat.   
He sighed. He fucking knew she was right. 

"I just don't want ya to get hurt, is all."  
"I can handle myself, Donny"  
There was a pause, long enough that she had given up on expecting him to reply, before he finally gave her a weak smile, speaking astonishingly softly for someone who is usually so loud.   
"I know."  
He slumped against a tree and shut his eyes, and she sat down next to him. She took a deep breath, feeling her lungs expand and contract, slowly and surely. She concentrated on that feeling, pushing away the voice in her head that remarked on the striking similarities between Donny and herself, now. The temper that wasn't there before, the lust for violence that has replaced a quiet pacifism.

"Remember when we used to talk about marrying each other?"  
She was surprised he brought it up. Must be uncomfortable with the silence - Donny hasn't stopped speaking since he figured out how.   
"You gave me a ring made out of a piece of string and we promised we'd never part."  
They both smiled.   
"Didn't we plan to elope?"  
Jean chuckled. "Yeah, but you didn't want to because you still wanted to work in your dad's barber shop"  
"And you were gonna make me promise never to hit anyone again."  
"Yeah."  
Their smiles faded slowly.   
"I guess we never did get the chance, did we?"  
"No, I guess not."

 

When Jean's footsteps fade and another pair approach, he knows who it is before he opens his eyes. No one else ever bothers him when he's mad except for him. And if Donny had figured out what was going on, he would have too. Fucking brains of the team, he is.   
Utivich hesitates a few metres away.   
Donny leans his head against the tree he was sat against.   
"Don't worry about it, Donny", Utivich said after a short pause, shaking his head. "She can do what she wants."  
Donny huffed, and Uti sat down beside him. He doesn't even know what happened, and he's not sure he wants to, but like hell Donny was gonna let some guy like Stiglitz fuck around with her. She's right though, of course she's right.  
Like he could read his mind, Uti nudged Donny's knee with his. "Hey, she probably wouldn't approve of everything you do, either." he said, smirking. Donny felt himself smile.   
"I think she'd be okay with it."


	10. bravery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As bright as cherry cordial.

There was something that kept her hesitant. That moment of tentativeness that usually accompanied new people seemed to linger. Perhaps it was the lack of knowledge surrounding him, or that impassive mask he wrapped around himself so tightly, those piercing eyes never quite giving a sense of any particular feeling, that kept her just that little bit on edge.

Regardless, Jean was relieved to have something to turn to, something to distract herself from the reality of what they were doing, from the disgust, or dread, or whatever sort of unease that sat in their bones, threatening to crack them should they dwell for any length of time. The feeling that your mind is too small, too large for your own brain, a loneliness, emptiness in your own skin that seeps so slowly in that you don’t realise it’s there until it’s far, far too late. Maybe the thrill of crimson cheeks and tingling nerves in warm embraces will keep her going a little longer.


	11. classified

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That's what they’re all here for.

The latest directive involves the retrieval and delivery of a special package of some (classified) description. Only a little more dangerous than a patrol ambush, but enough to put everyone vaguely on edge. The fact that it had been a considerable period since their last casualty meant that some of the company was becoming uncomfortable in their confidence. It's not good to think you're invincible.

The deep rumble of a truck and the higher growl of a motorcycle echo up the road. The sounds run through the soil, hands gripping guns a little tighter as they vibrate. A flash of grey and the vehicles are in range. The truck and accompanying motorcycles are stopped with relative ease, tyre marks clouded by hurried footsteps. The Lieutenant climbs in the back of the truck, and Donowitz and Wicki begin to remove the package. Struggling to lift it, they stop to adjust their awkward positions. The other Basterds jest and smile, the lapse in their guard just enough for the motorcyclist in Kagan’s charge to begin to stand, twisting and thrusting towards his supervisor. He is swiftly pushed to the ground, Sakowitz wasting no time in making use of his boots to subdue him. Kagan falls as the cyclist drops his long, engraved blade, and Sakowitz’ boots are replaced by his knife.

Donowitz and Stiglitz make short work of the remaining Nazis. Kagan’s whimpering is accompanied by the gurgling screams of other dying men, the thud of Donny’s bat almost enough to comfort him in his final moments. Even with three people clutching his abdomen desperately – Carter, Utivich and himself – the amount of blood produced was considerable. It felt odd, to see his clothing turn so completely red, when they usually see those patterns only on those they inflict it on. Kagan’s final breath was punctuated by the slick sounds of slaughter, and the quiet cries of those who had been hurt more than their share.

 

Raine and Wicki placed a handkerchief over the dead man’s face, the others stood watching. Kagan wasn't a fool. He'd known he was signing up to die when he joined the Basterds. That's what they’re all here for. 

Still, it'd take time to get used to the guy not being around.


	12. tremble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't take any more of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /Indicates dialogue in German/  
> ~Indicates dialogue in French~  
> All other dialogue is in English.

As evening fell, there was no recounting the day's triumphs. The mystery box stood, a reminder of the day’s losses more than anything. No one looked at it. Crowded with trees and bush and unspoken grief, the group was eerily quiet. 

I can't take any more of this.  
Jean stood abruptly, announcing her exit with harsh stomping through the forest floor, the cracks of her joints and crunch of grey-green beneath her feet seeming to echo in the thick silence.   
Footsteps approached through trees. When she turned it was Wicki who greeted her with a solemn nod.  
"~Alright?~"  
She sighed and shrugged. “~You?~”  
He nodded. The quiet continued.   
"It's just..."  
Her sentence hung in the air, patient.  
Wicki took a deep breath and exhaled.   
"Yeah."  
She shut her eyes, trying to concentrate on making sure her skull retains shape as the air around her threatens to compress her brain to breaking point.   
There's no chance to breathe here. No room for anything but the bare minimum. Some place deep in her belly is hungry for something other than food or water, for safety, for love, a childish need for affection or approval that she can't help but resent.   
She lays her head on Wicki's shoulder, hoping to be grounded by his touch. 

 

Hugo looks down to stub out his spent cigarette and when he looks up she's leaning on him, his arm coming up to wrap around her shoulder. He stands, unmoving, concealed by the thick brush as she curls herself into Wicki’s embrace. A rush of angry heat flows through him, and impulsive response within a mind fogged by mourning. Wicki is stroking her hair - the hair that just days ago he wound around his fingers, holding her close but never close enough. And all along she's been in Wicki's arms?  
Stiglitz turns and huffs back to camp. Have they heard me, will know that I have seen? Would they even care? He lashes out, scraping the skin off the knuckles on his right hand on the nearest tree. He barely feels it, the acceleration of the heat running through his veins, always simmering, accompanying an increasing detachment to his surroundings. In the face of deceit, in the face of betrayal, in the face of pain, he knew only one way to respond. He could feel it, anger and violence, muscles shaking and stomach churning with the surge of fire beneath his skin.


	13. fire in their veins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The words burn his throat in their rush to be heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /Indicates dialogue in German/  
> ~Indicates dialogue in French~  
> All other dialogue is in English.

Jean perches on the shallow log, knees up around her elbows. Wicki is nowhere to be seen. 

Hugo doesn't look up from his knuckles, crimson seeping from one layer of skin to another. Over his shoulder, he can hear the snap and hiss of a cigarette lighter.   
Finally, she asks, "What happened?” gesturing to Hugo’s freshly wounded hand.   
Hugo grunts vaguely in reply, and she takes a slow drag on her cigarette.   
"Just asking, no need to be grunting."  
Her voice is almost monotone, tired. He doesn't take the time to tell if she's making a joke - it doesn't matter; the fire in his veins is still running hot and the words burn his throat in their rush to be heard.   
"/Why don't you stay with Wicki then, I'm sure he's very friendly./"   
Her head snaps up to look at him; cigarette caught between her lips.  
"What?"  
He doesn’t respond, returning his attention to his hand, peeling the disturbed skin back.   
Jean’s expression of confusion is replaced with one of irritation, as she comprehends the implication. She takes her cigarette out of her mouth.   
"/I don't know what you mean./"  
His face creases into a scowl, and he moves to walk away. Jean stands in front of him, dropping her cigarette unceremoniously and attempting to push him backwards. He grabs her hands before she reaches his chest.   
"Hey!" She wrestles her hands from his grip. Her voice is raised, and some of the other Basterds look over.   
“/What do you think you can treat me like shit and I won’t do anything?/”  
All of the Basterds are staring now, red slowly creeping up Jean's face.   
"/Go fuck yourself. Go fuck everyone. I don't care./"  
The rest of the Basterds barely have time to be puzzled before Jean's fist slams into Stiglitz’ face, his head jerking backwards with the impact. Instinctively Hugo steps forward, hesitating with just inches between them, fists clenched in preparation to retaliate. One of the other Basterds exclaims, but they aren’t paying attention. Jean glares at him. His cheekbone throbs.  
Abruptly, Stiglitz turns and huffs away, muscles still tensed. He doesn’t return until the Lieutenant sends out Ulmer to bring him back.

-

Jean retrieves her second cigarette in as many minutes, sitting back down on the log heavily. She feels overheated, and grasps the cigarette almost too tightly, leaving a slight bend in the paper. Utivich sits down next to her but doesn‘t start conversation. It’s not like she’s not allowed to speak to people, sit next to people. He doesn’t get to be all annoyed just because she needed something and he wasn’t there to give it. A small, relieved part of her mind acknowledges that this frustration is preventing her from thinking about the day, from playing Kagan’s last spluttering breath over and over and over until she feels like she can feel him still under her hands. She sighs and Utivich shoots her a concerned glance. 

-

None of Stiglitz’ knuckles remain unharmed at the conclusion of his anger-fuelled exit. The trees seem to be laughing at him, so oblivious to his frustrations as to mock him in their stability. It’s easier to rip more bark of the closest birch than to think any more. It would feel too much like an admission of guilt, a loss of face to admit that it's because he cares about her. That his blood boiled when he saw them together because he was so terrified at the thought of losing her. That if they spent another hundred years in this war and they never touched each other again, he would be happy sleeping next to her every night, a foot of air between them, just knowing that she was safe.

Hugo slumps down against the same birch he just attacked, catching his breath. As he calms, it becomes easier to understand Jean’s reaction. He picks at the ground, an uneasy feeling at the pit of his stomach. He’s going to have to fix this. Not now though, not yet, he’ll stay here for a little longer.


	14. just another scar to avoid.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not like he can’t feel anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part originally posted to [my tumblr](http://wombat-pop.tumblr.com/post/157188266950/theres-no-use-talking-when-every-moment-is-just)

Her arms were crossed, the stagnation of the two figures doing nothing to alleviate the tension between them, present since they had last spoken.  
“…Well?”  
Her tone was cautious, but her indignation was clear. He glanced between her and the ground, hesitating.  
“I’m sorry.”  
They made eye contact for the first time in days. She seemed taken aback at his apology, and he swallowed his irritation. It’s not like he can’t feel anything.  
“You should be.”  
Her caution is gone, her surprise seeming to erode some of her resolve.  
He nods slightly, and turns to move slowly towards the other Basterds. She reaches her hand towards him reflexively, almost calling out to him to continue the conversation, but he’s gone now, and there’s no use making a big deal out of it here. Part of her knows, especially in light of recent events, that they both are unlikely to live too much longer. There’s no use talking, when every moment is just another second towards a death that they not only signed up for but often throw themselves towards; and words go unspoken, and scars make bright pink patchwork messes of bodies filled with patriotism and love and hate and revenge. The wind blows softly, so gently that it felt as though it was afraid to make sound, leaving those fallen to sleep soundly, undisturbed by the nightmare reality of those who are awake. The Basterds march - fuelled each by their own motivations - not with fear or enthusiasm but with a content acceptance and eagerness to succeed. Until their fates arrive all that is left is to live, one victory and loss at a time, savouring every taste and touch until it is inevitably taken from them, and they can join those sleeping so soundly, and they can finally rest.


End file.
